Everything Looks Better From Far Away

The cabin sat halfway up the mountain, perfectly placed at the edge of a cliff that overlooked the valley below. From the balcony, you could see the river winding like silver ribbon through the trees. The sun rose behind the eastern ridge and set in soft amber over the lake. It was a place photographers hiked miles to find — a place influencers posted and poets dreamed of.

To Ava, it looked like peace.

She found the listing online. One photo, almost too beautiful to be real: a glass-front cabin with an open deck, framed by pine trees and endless sky. “Solitude,” it read. “No Wi-Fi, no neighbors, no interruptions.” It was exactly what she thought she needed.

So she booked it. Two weeks. Alone.

The drive was long and steep. The road narrowed until pavement gave way to gravel, then gravel gave way to dirt, and she questioned more than once if her compact car could make the climb. But when she arrived and stepped out — the view stole her breath.

It really was perfect.

The valley was bathed in golden light. Fog curled along the treetops below. Wind rustled the leaves just enough to remind her she was alive.

Inside, the cabin was cozy. Minimal. Clean. A cast-iron stove. A single bed with flannel sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the southern wall. Ava spent the first evening sitting on the deck with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching stars blink into view like timid fireflies.

For the first time in weeks, her phone was off. The city, the noise, the breakup, the questions — all left behind.

But something felt… off.

It started small. On the second morning, Ava noticed her boots weren’t where she left them. She found them on the back porch instead of by the door. Probably knocked over by wind. Or maybe she misplaced them. She told herself not to overthink it.

On the third day, she heard knocking. Three short raps, just after dusk. She opened the door. No one there.

Probably the old pipes. Or the wood settling. Mountain cabins creak, she reminded herself.

But it happened again the next night. Same knock. Same time. Same emptiness on the other side.

Ava stopped going outside after dark.

She didn’t want to admit it — not even to herself — but the silence was starting to change. It felt heavier. The kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes you want to speak just to break it. At night, the wind didn’t whisper. It groaned. Something about it carried a shape, like the sound was brushing against something unseen.

Still, the view was perfect.

And she clung to that.

Each morning she’d wake early just to see the sun rise over the peaks, turning the mist gold. She’d take pictures, trying to capture that stillness, that cinematic beauty.

But every photo looked… flat. Like the lens couldn’t quite hold the truth of it.

Or maybe the lens showed too much.

In one of the photos she took from the deck on the fifth morning, Ava noticed something odd in the corner — a dark shape, half-blurred, almost hidden in the trees.

She zoomed in.

It looked like a man. Standing. Still. Watching.

But when she scanned the forest with her own eyes, there was no one. Just trees. Just shadows.

She deleted the photo.

She didn’t want to know.

By day eight, Ava stopped sleeping. The knocking came every night now, but more frantic — as if whatever it was had grown impatient. She’d piled furniture against the door, stopped opening the windows, and kept the stove burning even when it was warm.

Her solitude had turned to paranoia.

But the view — it remained perfect.

The contradiction gnawed at her. She started to feel like a set piece. Like the cabin and its view were built not for peace, but for display — like a dollhouse placed on a shelf, with her inside.

She stopped taking photos. They no longer comforted her.

She started writing things down instead. Each noise. Each oddity. The slight feeling that someone had moved the chair. The scent of pine that grew too strong, too fast — like someone had been standing right there.

On the tenth night, the knocking didn’t stop.

It started just after midnight and continued — slow, steady, rhythmic. She sat by the fire, clutching a kitchen knife, eyes fixed on the door.

When morning came, the knocks ceased. She opened the door.

Nothing there.

Except for one thing: her flannel blanket, the one she always kept on the deck, folded neatly on the porch railing. Dry. Clean. Warm.

Like someone had brought it inside during the night and returned it without a sound.

That afternoon, she hiked down the ridge. She didn’t make it far.

Half a mile down, she found a clearing with a view of her cabin.

It wasn’t just a pretty overlook — it was deliberate. A cut-out in the trees, like a place meant for standing. Meant for watching.

There were boot prints. Not hers. Too large. Too deep.

There were cigarette butts. Six of them. Recently used.

And there was a chair. A folding canvas chair. Facing the cabin.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t run.

She walked back. Slowly. Carefully.

And that night, she packed her bag.

Ava left the next morning.

She didn’t wait for sunrise. She didn’t look back at the view. She drove until the trees blurred into highway and the sky turned ordinary.

When she got home, her apartment looked smaller. The street noise annoyed her. Her phone buzzed with messages she didn’t want to answer. But she was safe.

Or so she thought.

Because that night, in her inbox, she found an email from an unknown sender.

No subject. No message.

Just one attachment: a photo.

Of her.

Standing on the cabin’s deck, staring at the horizon.

From far away.